


Twelve crackers and a glass of water

by Cinder7storm4



Series: How can I trust you? [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Emotionally Hurt Stiles Stilinski, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt Stiles, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Lydia's party, Panic Attacks, Sheriff Stilinski Feels, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Stiles Has Issues, Stiles Has Panic Attacks, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 23:43:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15254661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinder7storm4/pseuds/Cinder7storm4
Summary: Stiles and John talk. Well, Stiles talks, John cries, and then Stiles cries.





	Twelve crackers and a glass of water

**Author's Note:**

> I do now own Teen Wolf
> 
> *The drug use tag is about the wolfsbane. 
> 
> **I'm definitely swerving away from canon in this series.

Stiles turned back to his dad slowly, wondering if this had all been some kind of wolfsbane induced dream. Discretely Stiles ticked off his fingers behind his back, counting to ten three times, reassuring himself only slightly that this had been real. That didn’t make it better, because to be frank honesty scared the hell out of him. He didn’t know what his dad would say now that Derek was gone. He stayed quiet, angling himself to stand more to the opposite side of the table from his dad, keeping the chair between them. 

It was a reflex in Stiles, to keep things between himself and others and for so long he’d woven an extremely complex tapestry of lies that had hung thickly between himself and his father. Their conversation had started hacking at the tapestry’s binding threads and it made Stiles feel like he too was unravelling along with the lies. 

John assessed his son as he stood and almost instinctually shifted to the right, keeping them separate. The movement however slight and reflexive felt like a knife to the heart to the Sheriff, but he needed to keep his head for Stiles’ sake. He wasn’t going to break down for Stiles’ sake. 

Stiles needed him. 

Stiles needed him because he had been poisoned. 

Stiles had been poisoned. 

Stiles was in danger.

Stiles was consistently in danger.

Stiles ran with werewolves.

Stiles didn’t heal like they did. 

Stiles had almost died before. 

Stiles had been drugged and hurt, and if John hadn’t checked on him last night he never would have been any the wiser. 

As those thoughts whirled through his mind, John casually took a step away from the entrance to the kitchen and away from the table, giving Stiles space. He nodded at the antidote on the table, “I’d rather you start getting better sooner, rather than later, son.”

Stiles’ eyes snapped back into focus and he nodded jerkily, although he was obviously uncomfortable with the thought of what the antidote might bring forth in his mind. 

“Do you… Could you eat something before you take it?” John tried to ask casually, but his worry obviously bled into his tone. Stiles nodded, “Sure, pops,” his voice sounded hollow and light, but he grabbed some crackers and a glass of water, moving on autopilot in the kitchen. 

John wanted to protest that twelve crackers was hardly enough food for him, let alone Stiles, but he held his tongue. The only sound in the room the snap of the crackers as Stiles devoured them in quick neat bites and his dedicated swallows of water. 

When he finished, Stiles reached out for the bottle of antidote and pocketed it. Then, without a word made to walk upstairs. John reached out to catch him by the arm, “Stiles, you shouldn’t do this alone. You heard Derek.”

“Dad, I don’t, I can’t do this with you. If what Derek said is true, and he doesn’t lie to me on principle, it’s going to be bad. I don’t want you to see me like that,” murmured Stiles, his voice cracking. 

John tugged, lightly on Stiles’ arm, making his son turn to face him, but Stiles kept his head down. “Stiles, I need to know. I need to know the extent of this, son. Please, Mica, let me in.”

Stiles wanted to shake his head, tear his arm away, and run upstairs. He wanted to scream, cry, and punch walls. He didn’t want to watch his dad lose respect for him because he was weak. He didn’t want to watch his dad’s face close off. He didn’t want to lose his dad. 

Without realizing it, Stiles had started to ramble and sob at the same time, but somehow his dad had got them moving, up the stairs, past Stiles’ room and into John’s. By the time the Sheriff plucked the vial of antidote from Stiles’ hoodie pocket his son had worked himself into a panic attack. So, John pulled him close, and helped him through it, antidote safely on the side table. He was more determined now than ever to get Stiles to talk to him before he took the antidote. 

As spots receded from his vision and his world expanded from the pinprick of absolute panic it had shrunk to, Stiles realized he was upstairs in his dad’s room, being half-restrained, half-hugged by his dad. He wanted to protest, at least part of him did. He wanted to refuse to answer his dad’s questions, but a smaller part of him whispered that it might do them both some good. 

John could feel Stiles coming back to himself and becoming aware of the situation. He braced himself for a struggle, but none came. Instead, Stiles’ body sagged slightly, almost collapsing against his dad, seeking comfort, warmth, and reassurance, three things John was all too happy to provide. “Mica, you don’t have to answer my questions now, but I’d really like you to,” murmured the Sheriff, keeping his arms tight around his son, anchoring him. 

“Okay,” the sound was so soft, John might have never heard it if they weren’t so close at the moment.

Slowly, gently, the Sheriff turned Stiles around so that he could lean against the headboard, and face out, the door still in his sights. John settled himself next to Stiles, sitting so that they could make eye contact and he could tug his son into his arms when the situation called for it, because he’s sure it will. 

Stiles closed his eyes as his dad settled him on the bed. He couldn’t believe he was going to do this. He really wasn’t sure he could do this. But he no longer had the will to lie in a way that would allow for his tapestry of deceit to escape mostly unscathed. He could almost imagine that he could feel the wolfsbane poison in his veins now, his heartbeat loud in his ears, and the whispers of what happened last night lurked at the edges of his mind like hungry, feral wolves waiting to be fed. 

There was silence in the room as John tried to get his thoughts in order, but he could see Stiles’ anxiety creeping toward a spike again so he just went for it, “Was it a hallucination?”

“From last night?” Stiles asked, voice quiet, “It was…” he didn’t know how to phrase it so that he could be truthful, totally truthful, “It was a hallucination in the moment, but it was, it was based on a memory.”

“Can you walk me through it?” John responded after a beat of silence, heart clenching at the resignation in his son’s voice. Stiles bit his lip, unsure of where to start or how to break into what would end up being a very painful revelation for his dad. 

“Start at the beginning, Mica,” John put out a hand to rest upon his son’s fidgeting fingers, “Piece by piece, just like we used to.” That phrase brought a lump to Stiles’ throat, because before, before all of this, before his mother had died, his dad had recognized his innate curiosity and blatantly encouraged it with games. John would present Stiles scenarios, watered down versions of cases he’d worked before coming to Beacon Hills, and then step by step they would piece them back together. 

“Okay,” Stiles choked out the sound, then cleared his throat, “Scott and Allison were inside having some sort of disagreement and I didn’t want to be their go-between again so I left the house. I went out onto the back deck where the food and drinks were set up by the pool, and poured myself something to drink,” while he spoke Stiles’ breathing evened out more, the systematic recitation of facts calming his anxiety, but then it spiked suddenly, “I swear I had no idea there was anything in it. I totally figured if Lydia was going to have alcohol somewhere she’d keep it hidden or at least away from me, because she knows I’d tell you.” 

“I believe you, Mica,” John soothed his son, his words not causing such an intensely visceral reaction as earlier, “Keep going.” Although he was interested in a number of things from Stiles’ story, how often was Stiles held between Scott and Allison? Was Allison friendly to Stiles only because of Scott? Why was Scott not at the house as often as he used to be, even though Stiles had helped his through his werewolf acclimation period? But, he decided those were questions for another time so he locked them away in a compartment in his brain built for questions about Stiles and continued listening to his son. 

“I was just standing around, by one of the pillars on the patio when…” Stiles’ fingers curled into the bedsheets, gripping them tightly and John braced himself for the coming revelation, “I heard yelling. I couldn’t figure out where it was coming from at first, but then… Dad,” Stiles’ breath caught but he pressed on, “It was the memory of the night we buried mom.” 

John’s breath caught then, because he remembered what Stiles had reluctantly told him earlier that morning, “It’s okay, Mica, you can tell me. I love you. I’m not mad at you. I love you,” John pulled Stiles close to drop a kiss on his head, taking a moment to just curl around his son and feel like he could protect him even if he hadn’t up until this point in his son’s life, “It was me, wasn’t it?” John spoke softly, Stiles still curled up against him, “The yelling.” Stiles nodded into his chest, “I was drinking, wasn’t I?” Stiles nodded again and then let the memory wash over him as he quietly repeated the words his dad had thrown at him so often years ago when the whiskey overtook him and he grew bitter. John cried, silently, as Stiles spoke, his voice just above a whisper, but when Stiles halted for a beat then rushed through the end where John threw the whiskey bottle at Stiles and he just stood there, rooted to the ground, John heard himself gasp aloud and grip Stiles tighter. 

Stiles was crying too now and John just kept him close, rocking him, wondering how in the name of all that was demonic and holy he could ever, ever make this up to his son.


End file.
